Issue link: https://bluemagazine.uberflip.com/i/25059
I PULL OUT THE TIC IN THIS BL�"" TOURISTS HAVE B HAVE YET TO SE The next morning I notice four men sitting in a car outside the hotel. Disingenuously Mr Ray Ban has included his bodyguard in the squad. I give them the slip, the same cabdriver I had today. through the hotel security guards and flag down a cab. The three places on Mr Ray Ban's list a not where I am going. I decide to stop in at the Hotel Aurassi where the journos are waiting go on their now daily tour bus ritual. Inside it is a babbling zoo. There are a number of massacre sights to be visited and if rnalists are lucky there will be firefight where the army has the rebels holed up in the mou tains. One novice reporter tells me how they will be taken in bulletproof vans. I point out th the black-and-blue bulletproof Nissan Patrols are for the ninjas and that he will be riding in rge-windowed very un-bulletproofed tourist bus in front. I take video shots of the circus and one producer for WTN says, "Don't take my picture, i mother knew I was here she would kill me." It's a crowd of seasoned vets, eager freelancers nervous staffers, some on their first assignment away from the home desk. One young otographer is a former mercenary and special forces soldier eager to get some gory shots for is French photo agency. He is frustrated at seeing crusty brown puddles, dull-eyed survivors nd no bang bang. I bump into Mr Ray Ban. He wants to know why I am here and not where he told me to go. I fudge and say that I was looking for a friend and am just leaving. For, er, one of the three places e mentioned. I don't know what they are because I threw the piece of paper away. He watches get in the wrong cab and wags his finger at me. He says something on the walkie-talkie and es me disappear. THE KILLING ZONE I head stra ight into the killing zone-a region to the west of Algiers. I have a ir sense of security because most massacres happen at night. There is a danger of fake roadblocks but I have a feeling there will be no "phony" policemen while journalists are here. In fact I am becoming disturbingly confident that not much of anything is going to happen while the foreign press is in the country. long the way I stop at a restaurant. The owner is thri lled to have a Western customer. He has not seen a tourist since 1992. I stop and talk to many Algerians. I like them a lot. They are proud of their land, their history. But when I pull out a cam era or a notebook they draw back. All refuse to be photographed. I assume it is because of the terrorists. Later an older man fishing off a pier tells me, ment." Somewhat stunned by admission that the government, and not the GIA, is the one to fear, I talk to him. He worked over seas as an engineer, often in communist countries. He is used to the black cloak of fear and in his retirement he quite frankly doesn't give a damn. Even my cabdriver, who continues to scan the village for people who may be overly interested in our presence, cautions him to watch what he says. When asked about les aHreux , or "Take my picture and talk to me. I am not afraid of the govern "the terrible ones," the old man tel ls me that the GIA is just one more in Algeria's long line of problems. "It is like a baby, small and weak, then it grows into a teenager, ugly and strong, then it gets old and dies. And another is born." He is glad I am here and that I can see with my own eyes that the people of Algeria are not afraid. Should the West help? He says this is an Algerian problem and Algerians must fix it. A phrase I will hear again and again. My driver interrupts and asks if I have enough pictures and can we please go back. Every time I get out of the car he counts how long it is taking the mujahideen to find their rifles. I accede to his request. He thanks me and guns it. We hit a check point, one of the many "controls" in and around Algiers. It is so tense the soldiers don't get out of their bulletproof trucks to inspect passports and papers. Buses packed with tired women and old men are waved into a large walled compound to be searched. We have left the killing zone ... or have we? I stop at what looks like a bogus McDonald's. The young cashier gives me a free orange juice. As I turn to leave I walk straight into two plainclothes police who are as surprised to see me as I am to see them. It seems this little restaurant is directly across the street from their headquarters. Politely holding the cabdriver and me back with outstretched hands they radio in for instructions. They have to repeat because the person at the other end doesn't believe that they have found a tourist. COMFORIING STATIS· ANOTHER TOURIS�-. nistan and Albania. "No, � On the T-shirt he sees Algeria rig next to BATH: OFFICIALLY NO KILLED. liHEN AGAIN, I EVEN HEAR ABOUT � no, no," he says. "This must be changed. Algeria is not Afghanistan or Albania. It is not dan gerous here. I think you should leave tonight for making people think Algeria is dangerous." "If you are head of security and it is not dangerous why do you have a bodyguard?" I ask. He writes down the names of three places where I am allowed to go and says I must u